Positive Hip Hop For Seventeen Years, Y'all

A (not so) quick recap of the last week:

Sunday – Wednesday.

Pretty mellow. Contemplated existence & life. Came to no conclusions (I promise to keep you posted if I eventually do).

Sent out a few emails about work, an idea that is becoming somewhat of a novelty. At least paid work, because remember, writer’s retreat.

Drank coffee.

Found a coffee shop that sells 3 for 1 day-old bakery items. Those of you who know me well will understand the importance of such a find. Blueberry scones galore! I’ll be damned if I pay for just one anymore!

Found another coffee shop & bought a blueberry scone, just one, for full price. So much for sticking to a budget.

Mostly likely, but not for certain, ate Italian Ice.

Walked.

Rode Bike.

Killed some cockroaches.

Listened to some of the 1059 songs on ipod on sweet Bose ipod deck just laying around this apartment. I know I’m late to the party on all things tech, but if you don’t have one of these yet, get one. Ah, convenience.

Baked for the first time ever.

Was introduced to a bar that serves free bbq. Drank sangria & ate veggie burger.

Went to K-town.

Tried to assuage excrutiating sunburn. Failed.

Juggled. No, I didn’t, but I saw a guy today juggling, so it’s on my mind.


Thursday. Where it gets good.

Went to see Arrested Development. That’s right. The Arrested Development. “Positive Hip Hop for seventeen years,” as Speech informed the audience upon closing the set. As usual I was late to the event* because I have apparently lost all capability to read a map since I moved to New York. And, as usual, I got all pouty about it, which led to some pontificating about the invasive nature of MySpace & how it will soon ruin a generation’s ability to actually interact with each other. And, as usual, those around me had better points on the matter. And, as usual, because I was pouty, I refused to accept them. And, as usual, I got over myself in time to enjoy the company of friends on a roof top with sangria, Budweiser, & hummus.

I watch, and am
As a sparrow alone upon the house top.
-Psalm 102

Only not alone.


Friday.

More good music. Bishop Allen (how ‘bout that, it’s not a MySpace page). Check ‘em out. They’re going on tour & worth checking out. The show was on a pier downtown & we drank 40s & wine & could smell the ocean.

Then on to more roofs. On Living in Clip Ani Difranco quips that patios in New York are just rooftops of other buildings, but this was a serious party rooftop, complete with wood paneling so you wouldn’t have to step on messy tar. It’s gross when it’s hot. Across the street we could see the rooftop we were on on Thursday eating hummus. We did not have hummus on the higher Friday-night rooftop. And no Bud either. This time we went a bit summer-ier—Corona & Red Stripe.


Saturday.

Went to Coney Island! I should hate that place—crowds, lights, dirt—but for some reason I love it. Rumor has it that it is going to be completely changed next year. Apparently it has been gobbled up by some large corporation that is going to do what big companies do (I’ve heard different versions of C.I.’s fate & can’t say for sure what is going to happen to it). I’m glad I am getting to see it in it’s old run-down form. It is, as one person I was with put it, Americana at it’s pinnacle.

On Saturday Siren Fest was happening, which meant a lot of people & a lot of music. Met up with some friends from college &, along with the rest of the crew, saw We Are Scientists (how ‘bout that). They weren’t my favorite, but they were pretty good & their web site is worth a visit, as it is f’n hilarious.

Later we all took a walk on the boardwalk &—this time I’m certain—ate some Italian Ice—cookies & cream, which I got scolded for by pretty much everyone. But I didn’t care. I knew how delicious it was.

We walked back to the stage to see what we could see of M.I.A., but she drew a huge crowd & we couldn’t get close. So we caught the train outta there.


Today.

Rode my bike into Manhattan to go to the Union Square Farmer’s Market only to discover that the Farmer’s Market doesn’t happen on Sunday. Really?! Now that doesn’t make one lick of sense. I stayed in Union Square anyway & read. I’m still reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavelier & Clay** & came across a part where one of the characters, Joe, is walking through Union Square and sees a moth. As I read I looked up & there was a moth sitting on the sidewalk. It made for quite a surreal moment.


That brings us to the present, almost Monday as I type. I’m trying to enjoy the city a bit more as I can see the end of summer, which means the end of my time in New York, fast approaching. There’s no sense having a bad time and complaining. There is sense in enjoyment, however you can find it. Still, I realize that reading a list of the things I did over the course of a week, which brought me enjoyment, may not make for the most enjoyable read. So, if you’ve stuck with me this far, a treat: someone else’s writing:

She walked into my father. Melody Nash met Henry Smart. She walked right into him, and he fell. She was half his weight, half is height, six years younger but he fell straight over like a cut tree. Love at first sight? Felled by her beauty? No. He was maggoty drunk and missing his leg. He was holding himself up with a number seven shovel he’d found inside an open door somewhere back the way he’d come when Melody Nash walked into him and dropped him onto Dorset Street. It was Sunday. She was coming from half-eight mass, he was struggling out of Saturday. Missing a leg and his sense of direction, he hit the street with his forehead and lay still. Melody dropped the beads she’d made herself and stared down at the man. She couldn’t see his face; it was kissing the street. She saw a huge back, a back as big as a bed, inside a coat as old and crusted as the cobbles around it. Shovel-sized hands at the end of his outstretched arms, and one leg. Just the one. She actually lifted the coat to check.
—Where’s your leg gone, mister? said Melody.

from A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle

If I can hype musicians by giving their web sites, I’ll be damned if I can’t hype some writers by quoting some fantastic writing. I mean, come on, "It was Sunday. She was coming from half-eight mass, he was struggling out of Saturday." That is just great.



*Everyone can stop worrying. Even in my tardiness I did hear “Everyday People.”

**Post on Reading Them Right Now about this. Hence the still reading.